Sorry, gang. I deeply regret going. Tourists that afternoon, snapping pictures, getting pictures of themselves “with it”…

I will likely be asked to go back because class attendance was so low. I will likely go back because I need the money. But my first instinct was correct. It was severely triggering.

I appreciate everyone’s faith in me and your congratulations on my “breaking through.” But it doesn’t feel like a breakthrough, and honestly, I feel bad about breaking the promise I made to myself and to my friends. There are things more important than personal strength.

I do not understand why this continues to be a big deal, but it does.

I’m blogging right now from One World Financial Center, across the street from the WTC site.

It’s smaller than I recall from the last time I was here. Of course, then it was a five story high heap of smoking rubble and many of the streets I just walked were closed off.

I compromised on the whole thing; drove down here from Worcester at 3AM, got into town and was parked and on the street by 6 AM. I decided — rightly, I think — that staying in the Embassy Suites on the other side of the street overnight was too triggering (and way too expensive for my budget, since I have to pay for my room upfront — even with the D&T corporate rate it was well above 300 bucks for the night).

As it is right now, being outdoors and up close to it was OK this AM, but I did have to get away from it after a bit. Kinda hoping the training room doesn’t overlook the site; 8 hours of it might be a bit much. One good thing: no sense of presence here for me right now; I expected to be haunted by memories of my coworkers, but all I keep thinking about is the smell, the way it smelled last time I was here. I can still smell it, but it’s OK.

In retrospect, I should have canceled, gotten someone else to cover this session, if only because I will miss TheKlute tonight in RI at Gotpoetry if I run into the slightest bit of traffic on the way back (and leaving NY at 5 or so, I think the odds of that are reasonably good).

Last time I listen to you guys. 😉

See you on the other side.

a Rockies win and got a Red Sox win, you’d be wrong.

🙂

I’ll be in NYC next weekend to be part of the imminently spectacular reading for the November 3rd Club next Saturday night at the Bowery Poetry Club.

Here’s the write up right from the BPC site:

“6:00pm – 8:00pm
The November 3rd Club -$7

Poet and Nov3rd editor Victor D. Infante hosts, featuring: Tony Brown, Jane Cassady, Brian Dauth, Lea Deschenes, Guy LeCharles Gonzalez, Gary Hoare, Lynne Procope, Skip Shea, Jackie Sheeler, Rachel McKibbens, Michael Cirelli and Patricia Smith”

If you look carefully at that lineup, you will undertand why you WILL be there.

The zine itself is here:

http://www.november3rdclub.com/

I think we’ll be staying over, though probably not in the city (not many hotel rooms available for under 400 bucks a night that weekend) and then spending some time in the city on Sunday. I could use a NY fix.

Love to see you. Come on down.

Many eons ago, there was a Cape Cod Slam. It was based in a cafe in Hyannis, MA, called The Prodigal Son.

The Prodigal Son closed. Now, the business has reopened as The Black Spot Cafe. Serves excellent coffee and sandwiches, the owner is a wine connoisseur and the wine, beer, and mixed drink selection reflects that. WiFi, cool art, and an overall thoughtfully but not pretentiously progressive sensibility make the place one I shall revisit.

Last night, Duende had a gig there. Tiny audience for this new reading — 6 people, including the host (Jose Gouveia) and not including our entourage. It was only their second night and there was some sort of baseball game on (I brought my laptop so we could keep track of the score for the, um, audience — yeah, that’s right, the audience) so there were two BIG factors for the low attendance…and I don’t feel too bad, as we equalled Regie Gibson’s turnout for last month.

We played a good set; Faro did some unexpected improvising on a couple of pieces which was FUN, and it was a good night. Some good connections came out of it; we were asked back to play as a featured MUSICAL act, which I consider a big triumph since we want to take this outside of the poetry scene.

And…a full payday as promised, even considering the low turnout. Gotta respect that.

Highly recommended. Good Time.

NEXT DUENDE GIG: November 11. Cambridge, MA. The Lizard Lounge. Expect some jammin’ with the Jeff Robinson Trio…we got a little taste of that in April when we performed with Marc Smith and Regie and Iyeoka and Adam and all; this time, the mere thought of having two basses on stage along with Jerome and Jeff has us salivatin’. Be there!

might want to head down to the Black Spot Cafe in Hyannis, MA tonight.

Duende’s headlining a gig at the recently revitalized Cape Cod Slam. They’re planning a Poetry + Music night, encouraging folks to perform with music. There’s also a spotlight feature by Isis, from Denver.

Fun starts around 7. I’d offer rides to folks, but I’m not leaving from Worcester and think I’ll have a full car.

Hope to see you!!!

Someone at Gotpoetry tonight read a poem about how they saw fascism in the eyes of militant vegans, and dedicated it to the folks at AS220.

Seems a little extreme, but I did understand it.

And Laura Moran? Wonderful as always…one of my favorites.

Listening to Laura makes me think there are three tiers within the performance scene — the poets who read their page work off page, those who have learned to perform works originally written for the page, and those for whom the stage is the medium. No critique there because there are great poets in each tier…but I have to say I find the most kindred spirits in the second tier.

http://www.deathclock.com/

Of course, this has been around for a while and many of us have done it, but I looked at it again tonight and got a shock: according to this, I died eight years ago.

Somehow
it is comforting
that when I see
a big cat (tiger lion
leopard or the like)
on the television, I can still imagine
how the teeth would feel
piercing my forearm, crushing through
into the bone; I can picture the beast
pulling my arm off of me thoughtfully,
chewing on it with a break now and then
to yawn, leaving me to thrash and then succumb
to pain and blood loss just off screen
while my arm is immortalized on film,
while horrified cameramen are unable
to tear themselves away from the scene
even as the host of the show intones
warnings of the power and majesty
of these creatures, even as I died the cat
would be uninterested in that death, having enough
to hold his interest in the way the tendons
pass among his teeth, I am satisfied that this moment
would still have felt correct,
as though I had made of myself a sacrifice to prehistory
that would feel better than the quiet death of cholesterol
and old age, as if I had somehow tied myself back into
something more than what I deserve, as if the cat that killed me
allowed me a gift of understanding what the tendons in my arm
were meant to do.

I’m asking for them again…for tomorrow AM. Say, between 10 and 1.

All will be revealed shortly, I promise.